But, woven in my being, burn again
With fires the torch of memory kindles still.
Though I have wandered far in distant spheres,
And mixed in many scenes of joy and tears,
And found in all, perchance, some friends, and loved
One who was even more, I ne'er have roved
From thee, my mother, and thy sacred grave.
I could forget, albeit a task severe,
All forms, all faces, all that love e'er gave,
Save thine, my mother,—that no time can wear.